


Mercy

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two meetings in the back rooms of the palace of Attolia, years apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Many happy Yuletide wishes to Willow Smith, whose request was as follows:   
>  Megan Whalen Turner - The Thief series (Any)   
> Details: I would like Gen or Irene or Costis, if possible, and please no slash or explicit sex.   
> I do not own the characters or setting in this story, which was written in homage to the works of Megan Whalen Turner.   
> Any critique is most gratefully accepted.
> 
> Written for Willow Smith

 

 

When the ceiling plaster crumpled under Gen's feet too quickly for him to reach the next beam, the only thing he thought was Oh, no; he hadn't time to go on to how badly he might be hurt or how disappointed his grandfather would be in him before he hit the floor. He hadn't time to roll into the correct position for falling either, so the crack of bone from his ankle wasn't too surprising. Gen closed his eyes and waited for the pain to hit, then recede, without making a sound; at least that he could do right.

The room wavered around him as he opened them; dusty tapestries, sacks of grain in one corner, baskets of linen in another, shreds of rushes from the ceiling around him on the floor, quite a lot of dust floating in the torchlight, and a white face staring at him from the other side of the room. A man with the blowpipe of a gaida still between his lips, though no sound emerged. Slowly he lowered it, although his mouth remained open.

"Well, haven't you ever seen someone fall through a ceiling before?" Gen demanded waspishly. The squeak in his voice was pain, but perhaps it had passed as annoyance.

The musician closed his mouth, although he was still staring. The gaida let out a muffled squeak. Gen realized that he was sprawled on the floor in a fairly undignified position, his hurt leg doubled under him and both hands flung out in front, and pushed himself up slowly. One of his sleeves had a torn edge dangling, though since he was in his work clothes, he could just cut off the torn part. The man's chair scraped on the floor and Gen looked up to see him standing.

"Don't you have something to do besides stare?" Gen asked, annoyed. This was embarassing enough without his every move being watched, and perhaps if the man left to summon the guards, he could climb back into the ceiling and reach safety somehow. Then Gen tried to shift his leg, and pain shot through him again, even as hope left. He would never be able to get up to the hole, let alone get far afterwards.

"You - are you hurt, boy?" The Attolian didn't sound very bright; that should be fairly obvious to anyone at this point. Possibly Gen should try to convince him that he belonged here in some approved, servant-like capacity. Gen's grandfather said that it was amazing how people could be made to believe that you belonged almost anywhere, if you just behaved as if you knew what you were doing and where you were going. However, Gen thought that even someone as credulous as his Aunt Delia would have trouble believing that a boy with blackened face and dark, filthy clothes who had just fallen through a ceiling actually belonged in a palace, and Aunt Delia had just given several pieces of jewelry to a Sounisian con artist who claimed he could turn copper into gold.

"Are you - you're a thief, aren't you." The man sounded surprised. Gen thought down to the next item on his grandfather's list of How To Get Out of Tight Situations - he'd said that even if you were known to be a criminal, a large number of people could still be bribed to ignore or even aid you. ("Many more people than you'd believe, even people from Eddis, my little patriot.") But Gen didn't have anything valuable with him, and he certainly didn't look like someone who would return with money, if allowed to leave.

"No, I'm the king's royal messenger," Gen snapped. He wasn't just any thief, he was going to be The Thief, but there was no point in letting that slip. Of course, his grandfather would think that anyone who had made as many stupid mistakes as Gen had made today would never be good enough to become the next Thief, and he'd be right. First Gen had been in the king's wing of the palace, where he had been forbidden to go, next he had been moving too fast over unfamiliar surfaces, grown cocky with his mastery of the palace layout, and finally he had fallen, which no thief with proper preparation and reflexes should do, and that surely meant his god was angry with him. Gen bit his lip and felt, to his horror, a prickling of tears wanting to fall.

"You're very young for a thief." A large hand rested on his shoulder; the Attolian was squatting on his heels next to Gen. Gen considered trying to hit him, but couldn't see how that would improve his situation in the slightest. He settled for a glare. It didn't seem to faze the man.

"Let's see that leg, boy. Don't worry, I won't hurt you." He sounded almost calming, like a man soothing an overexcited hunting dog.

"I'm not afraid of you! Leave my leg alone!"

"Come, boy, you can't just sit there all day." He wasn't settling for a no. Gen let him pull the leg straight and bit back a yelp as he touched his ankle.

"That's better, now. Well, I'm no physician, but I'd bet you need to get that looked at. You'll be fine in no time - young bones heal quickly." He was obviously still trying to sound soothing, his husky voice low and one hand supporting Gen's back. Gen couldn't help finding it somewhat reassuring, despite himself - he hadn't even gotten to worrying about his leg yet. "Why, my little Itone fell down and hit her knee the other day, and after howling like all of the Furies combined, she climbed right back up and took off again, and none of us can keep up with her now."

Gen wondered somewhat dazedly why he was being treated like an errant child when he was obviously up to no good. "It'll be fine. Just call the guards." The sooner he knew what would be done with him, the sooner he could get to the business of healing and escaping.

"Guards! Well then..." The musician's voice sounded doubtful. "I do suppose that's what I should do with you, although you're awfully young for a cell. However did you get all the way in here to the storage room anyway, past all the guards at the gate?"

Gen was most definitely not saying.

"Well, I can see that you'd find plenty for stealing in the palace, although it still passes my understanding how you got in, and what could make one so young turn to stealing at all."

"It's sort of... a family trade," Gen said grudgingly, wanting to explain to the idiot musician exactly how many dangerous places he had already been in his young career, but not foolish enough to antagonize someone who was obviously ridiculously soft-hearted towards dirty-looking boys.

The man chuckled. "Funny sort of trade to pass down, but I suppose it takes all sorts. Though it doesn't seem to have gotten you very far, boy."

Gen gritted his teeth and supposed that at the moment, the man did have a point.

"I don't know, boy, it just doesn't seem right - why, you're not even old enough to apprentice as a musician here, let alone be put into the prison. One doesn't hear good things from down there, which is as it should be, I suppose, for the King's enemies, but still..." His voice trailed off.

Gen tried not to look hopeful. If his god was angry with him, perhaps it had passed; there couldn't be many people this deluded, or kind, in the whole palace. Falling into the storage room where the gaida player was practicing was beginning to seem less like the wrath of heaven falling on him and more like one beam of brightness in an otherwise dark sky.

"Listen, boy, can you swear to me, on whatever gods you follow, that you haven't stolen anything or harmed anyone here?" The man was kneeling still, looking at him earnestly.

Gen tried not to let his relief show. Thank Eugenides that he hadn't fallen on his last visit to the Attolian palace, when his grandfather had sent him to memorize the contents of a couple of interesting letters in the hidden drawer in the king's desk, and he'd picked up a comb for his cousin in an anteroom on the way. This visit had only been to keep up his training and reinforce his knowledge of the thief's ways around the palace. "I swear by my gods."

The Attolian, his face as transparent and honest as glass, blew out a sigh. "I trust you, boy, though why I don't know. I won't call the guards, then, although it's plain to see you can't get out again by yourself." He stood and started pacing back and forth. "I can't carry you out of the palace like that, all dust and rags; truly, even if you were dressed properly, the gate guards might want to know why you weren't taken to the palace physician, and who you were." He started humming, apparently unconsciously.

Gen thought quickly. "Could you dump out one of those large baskets and carry me out of the gates inside?" The Attolian looked strong enough to carry a considerable weight.

The man looked at him doubtfully. "I don't know, boy - you are small, but..."

"I can fit in, I know." Gen did not explain that he knew this from hiding in a similar basket one day when his cousins had been hunting for him all over the court. He had put gunpowder in a log for their fire - his own mix, and he was rather proud of it, but he shouldn't have stayed to watch their reactions.

"But with that leg of yours, where can I take you that you'd be safe, and get it treated, and..."

"I have friends I can go to," Gen said firmly. There was no need to act as if he was helpless; he was perfectly capable of talking any local physician into treating him quietly, or binding his leg himself, if he needed. Besides, his grandfather was in the town waiting for him.

"Well, if you're sure, then. Though it goes against the grain to leave an injured young one on his own. But there's no denying you'd probably be safer outside the palace walls. And you look determined enough to..." Still talking, he had rolled one of the big baskets onto its side, taking out rolls of yellowing linen packed with fragments of bay and eucalyptus leaves.

"I'm sure. And I'm not as young as I look. I'll be fine." Gen was proud that his voice did not squeak this time, as he pushed himself up on his hands and his ankle protested again. He heard a sound suspiciously like a chuckle and looked up at the Attolian quickly.

"I can see that, boy. You can take care of yourself just fine. Just don't put yourself in any more palace ceilings, now." Gen could see the smile lurking around the man's mouth, but it would certainly be foolish to start an argument with his rescuer, no matter how much his pride protested. He slid his legs around slowly toward the mouth of the basket. "In you go, then. There'll be a bit of shaking as we go, no helping that. You can tell me what part of the town you want to go to once we're out the gates - it'll be Thanos' turn to use this room for practice in a bit, and he tends to turn up early."

Gen was mostly inside the basket, already smelling of herbs strongly; his ankle was giving him bright flashes of pain, but it didn't matter. He looked up as the Attolian gently rolled the basket upright and wiggled his hips and shoulders down against the rough shoots. His size was being useful again, and he didn't think the guards at the gate would care about a musician with a basket, if they even noticed him. Although how he would ever explain to his grandfather that he had been helped out of his dilemma because an Attolian had felt sorry for him... Possibly it would have been easier to escape from the prison.

"Now duck your head, boy, and I'll put on the lid. Will you be all right, then?" The gaida player nodded reassuringly at Gen. Gen watched as he raised the lid, suddenly unsure of what to say - it couldn't have been more than ten minutes from the time he fell into the room to the time this stranger was offering to risk his job, certainly, and possibly his life, rescuing Gen. Either the gods were directing him or he really was incredibly foolhardy - no one could be quite that generous, could they?

"Yes, I... I"ll be well. You..." Gen stopped himself before he spoke of debt; when would he ever have the chance to repay someone who lived in the palace of Attolis, without it being treason for both of them? "I wish I could..."

"No need, boy, no need. Isn't it said, the Great Goddess sees every deed a man's done, and She rewards the merciful?"

The last thing Gen saw before the lid closed over his head was the Attolian's cheerful smile.

***************************************************************************************

Itone curled into herself and wept, burying her face in her skirts, not caring that she was getting them wrinkled, spotted, and stained from the jars of olive oil she was sitting on. After today, she wouldn't have any reason to get into fine clothing, before the court or before - anyone else.

She had stopped crying and was half asleep, exhausted from despair, when someone tripped over her legs and cursed softly. Itone sat upright, surprised, and found that her candle had gone out. She could see nothing of the storage closet except a few large jars in the faint light near the doorway, but there was obviously someone else in there. Itone reached out for her candle and shrieked when her hand hit something in the way. A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed her shoulder, shaking her. "Quiet, you. Stop that dreadful noise." Itone gulped and stopped. "By all the gods, thank you," the voice said fervently. A woman's voice, it sounded vaguely familiar, but Itone couldn't place it exactly. "What in the name of the Goddess are you doing sitting in the storage closet in the middle of the night?"

Itone had nothing to lose by telling the truth. "I... I failed the test to join the Queen's musicians... I'll have to leave the palace and I don't want to!" Part of her wondered what she was doing, talking to a mysterious woman she couldn't even see, but it felt good to tell someone. "All my life I've lived here, with my father and mother, and then there's Stavrios..."

"Who?" The stranger sounded somewhat bemused.

"He's the fourth son of the Baron Missiakos - but even fourth, he can't marry a servant! If I had become a respected musician... but there was never much chance of that, anyway." Itone couldn't help another sob or two.

A slight scraping sound came from the end of the closet. Itone looked up in surprise; although she couldn't see anything at all, she could have sworn that the voice had been coming from the other direction, nearer the door. "Who's there?" she asked, feeling that perhaps she should have chosen a different closet.

"Only a passerby at midnight, fair voice in the dark." a man's voice said cheerfully. "Pray excuse the interruption, my... ladies."

"Don't worry, it's only a friend of mine," the first voice said dryly. "One who has undoubtedly come to see what has kept me from a rendezvous, only to find me consoling the bereaved and heartbroken."

"Forgive me for not waiting," the man said, but considering that you have not had the... uh, practice in walking these halls that I have..."

"Oddly enough, your extensive tutorials on traversing this palace in the dark never covered tripping over weeping servant girls in the oil cupboard."

"I... I should go," Itone stammered. "I don't know who you are but..."

"Just as well, too," said the man. "But did I hear you saying that there was an affair of the heart involved in your crying-in-the-closet episode?" The words were flippant, but Itone heard a note of sympathy in his voice.

"Not any more," she said softly. "Stavrios said that he'd leave his family for me, all his life here, but I can't let him; I'll have to leave myself, and soon."

"She said that she failed the musician's test today," the woman's voice added, not unsympathetically. "I don't suppose there was anything unfair?"

"No," Itone sighed. "I've never really had the talent for any of the instruments, although my father always hoped... He's the chief gaida player for the court. It was just that I needed to raise my status."

"Gaida player?" the man said, sounding surprised. "You wouldn't be Itone, would you?"

"You know me?" Itone asked. "Who are you?"

"Ah, no, but I knew your father briefly once. And it's really much better you don't know me. Listen, Itone, are there any other court posts you're more suited for? Anywhere your talent lies other than music?" He sounded interested and concerned, and she found herself answering again, despite not being able to see her questioners.

"I always did well on my lessons and had a steady hand with writing and copying scrolls, but the court scribe only wants boys as apprentices." A soft sound of disdain came from near the curtain.

"Well, it's not a great talent, but it's useful," she added, wondering why she was defending herself to people she couldn't see.

"I think we may be able to do something with that," the man's voice answered, sounding as if it was coming closer. "Wait a minute, my dear, while we discuss your situation amongst ourselves." A slight wind brushed Itone's face, and she heard both voices now murmuring softly from the doorway, just below the level she could hear. Feeling that this interview in the dark was getting more and more bizarre, she considered getting out of the closet, but realized the others were between her and the curtain. Anyway, this had certainly been a distraction from her misery.

"All right, Itone, it's settled." It was still the man speaking, although from the curtain now. "In the morning, the personal secretary to the king will summon you to discuss apprenticeship. That should be sufficiently lofty and influential to suit your prospective in-laws, although if they prefer glamour to scholarship, it can be arranged for you to spend some public time with the queen's attendants." He sounded amused and firm. "In a year or two, if you and the stalwart Stavrios are still of the same mind, the family Missiakos should make no trouble." All was apparently settled to his satisfaction.

Itone felt herself gaping and didn't know quite where to start. "But you can't... how can you promise... it's not possible..." It was a lovely dream, but surely only that.

"Now, don't ask questions, Itone, just get some sleep and wait for the secretary's summons." The man still sounded amused, but not as if teasing her.

"And make sure he's what you want before you make any promises," the woman added firmly. "A court secretary does not have to get married unless she chooses." Her voice was passing by where Itone sat. Although she still couldn't see a thing, she could hear soft footsteps and that barely audible scraping sound again.

"But wait!" Itone gasped. "How can you... I mean, why would you... what shall I tell Stavrios... my father..."

"Tell him..." the man was speaking, from what sounded like inside the wall, "Tell him... that She rewards the merciful."

 


End file.
